


The Epic of Four

by corrupted_quiet



Category: South Park, South Park: The Stick of Truth (Video Game)
Genre: Betrayal, Blood, Deception, Elf Culture & Customs, Elves, Epic Battles, Fights, Kings & Queens, LARPing, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Power Struggle, Rape Fantasy, Roleplay, Royalty, South Park: The Stick of Truth, Swords, Swords & Sorcery, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Violence, fake incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5958373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrupted_quiet/pseuds/corrupted_quiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one who possesses the Stick wields control over the Universe. One relic has the power to rewrite and undo the fabric of these worlds, of these lands. One relic lies at the centre of war, between human and elf, passing back and forth. But this is how the relic became no more, how the great kingdoms of Zaron and of Larnion toppled to ruin, how the game became more real than anything else. Four souls intertwined, and one Stick to rule them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Final Song

Though these lands have many names, each kingdom and tribe differing in how they call their homes, the spirit of song never wanders through the taverns and woods as a stranger. For while the humans call these lands Zaron, united under the banner of the Kingdom of Kupa Keep, and the drow elves refer to them as Larnion, guided by the leadership of the Elven Kingdom’s monarchy, song is never lost. From the ballads of the common peoples, their easy tunes declaring the sweet simplicities of village life, to the odes of the battlefields, their awesome hymns depicting the rises and falls of great heroes, music has fostered the histories, nurtured and nourished them, allowed them to thrive and persist. The lyrics of these songs document what court historians can scarcely write quickly enough, with kingdoms clashing with such constancy, the campaigns bleeding together, the ink of the past not yet dry on the page by the time a new crusade overwrites victories prior. The messiness of history, its pace and politics, is shed when put to rhythm, when musicians pluck the gut strings of their lutes, bow hairs from manes across their chords, breathe melodies into their woodwinds. The bars, the pubs, the camps, the brothels; everywhere they sing, choral chants influenced by drunken merriment and working ennui weaving together a rich harmonic tapestry, of the complexities and intricacies of their teeming and thriving universe. Song immortalises history, but as it circulates, history becomes legend, becomes myth.

Perhaps this tale is just that, the fabrication of oral mistake, the gild of truth chipping away in the tradition, until only a shabby relic remains, lacklustre and cracked, room for many questions. The saga of the Stick of Truth may only be a story told to the children of the lands, enthralling them with talk of bloodshed and battle, of power and corruption, of lust and love, of duplicity and betrayal; mothers and fathers can only hope their young ones recognise the follies of those last to hold the artefact, wield the Stick before it disappeared. They can pray that, in their idolisation and fascination, they will recognise the flaws of their heroes, understand how the influence infected each one, until they all met brutal consequence. For the last history of these lands, the final song of ass and fire, is the Epic of the Four, the four whose quests for victory and might culminated in Zaron’s darkest days, Larnion’s grimmest chapter, the civilisations’ near end.

Of the four there was a wizard, one who reigned over the humans as their king. His knowledge of magic could only be matched by his thirst for control, his desire to see the Elven Kingdom engulfed in flames, and their king writhing bloodied and defeated beneath his feet. He directed his soldiers with his enchanted staff, but more often than not sat leisurely back on his throne, all while good men died in the name of his cause. He ruled through fear and, with the Stick in his possession, none could question his ways, for those who did met banishment, from space and from time.

Of the four there was a high elf, one who held the crown of the sylvan glades. His blood gave him the throne, but his tact and his acumen kept it in his hands, and his rallying presence in the camps as well as the battlefields kept him loved by his people. He wanted the world to be rid of the unjust and criminal, all which was supported under the wizard king’s creed, and saw the Stick as an instrument that could free the world from such sufferings. His idealism and his ambition captivated him, but most were so blinded by the gold in his words that none could see flaw.

Of the four there was a princess, one who dwelt amongst brutes not courtiers. Her beauty and her compassion inspired the humans hardened by war, a single smile or show of her breast enough to keep morale from plummeting. She cultivated her mind along with her body, mastering the arts of subterfuge and statecraft, exceeding all human soldiers in archery and agility, utilising her immortal abilities, and becoming a prized member of the human force. Her dreams were not bound to a kingdom, however, coveting the Stick as a method to embrace her claimants.

Of the four there was a warrior, one who commanded the armies of the forest. His prowess with the sword combined with his everlasting loyalty to his king granted him the chief position of the elven fighters, strategizing as well as enacting. He guided his men to many victories, rounds of ale raised afterwards to praise him, and saved them from unneeded casualties, lives of rangers spared courtesy to his manoeuvring. He greatly loved the kingdom he served, the land he protected, the king he revered, though such love when corroded can turn to desperation, all because of the Stick.

These four chose their destinies, thrusting to the beguiling beckons of the Stick, crossing their fates and entangling the lands. These four lost themselves to the possibilities, of being able to manipulate the very universe, until the greatest kingdoms crumbled and all joy they sought from oaky potential disintegrated, became ash in their mouths, and choked them all to death. These four marked themselves in history, but at the cost of infamy, of tragedy, of tears and of blood. These four destroyed the world, after they destroyed themselves, destroyed each other.

This tale takes place when the kingdoms still thrived, when the Stick wandered freely between ancient enemies, human and elf locked in endless battle, vying for its power. This is how Zaron and Larnion turned to tattered fabrics of their former glories, ending the era of classical warfare, ushering in one of violent chaos. This is how these lands became lawless, their boundaries blurred and erased, and the Stick lost. This is the Epic of Four, and it begins in the Long Ago, the _Before_ Time, in these lands far, far away…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the preface, so it's a lot shorter than actual chapters will be. I've been planning this story for a long time and have a lot planned, so I really appreciate you reading. I hope you'll continue to read as more content comes out, and that you enjoy the ride, though it does plan on getting more than a little bit bloody.


	2. 1: The Wizard's Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to @Courtanie for beta'ing! And thanks so much to all the readers who have continued interest in this story!

Eric Cartman built this kingdom, raised it from the ground up, made men know the name Zaron as the name of a great world. In six minutes, he created this world, and then took the next seven hours rest. It is with his will, his power, his backyard, that the Kingdom of Kupa Keep flourished, blossoming like a rare and ancient fruit, hardening into the jewel for all Zaron to gaze upon in envy; envious of its wealth, its beauty, its might. It proves the worth of humanity—the superiority of man over all others—stands as a monument to the achievements of one great leader, whose authority dare not come to question. This is the place that the Grand Wizard Eric Cartman made, and he’ll be damned if he sees it fail, fall due to others’ incompetence.

It is _others_ , others who caused the pedestal in the King’s chambers to sit vacant, bare, a haunting ruin of a too recent crime. This column—a plastic Grecian pillar, acquired from a crabby neighbour’s verdant garden of flowers and betrayal—holds only a simple cushion, of plush velvet and silky twine, bearing but a simple imprint of a relic robbed. The pillow’s fabric, dyed the same red as the mixed blood of a thousand warriors, and its golden rope, matching the hue of treasure won and looted from corpses of enemies, attest to the tragedy, weeping beneath the rays of the hundred watt lightbulb.

Cartman’s eyes follow the floating dust, dancing in the beams which mimic the heavens’ sacrosanct light, gazing at the empty alter. Yes, the pieces are all humble in origin, parts of the whole taken here and there from garbage bins and yard sales, slightly worn and less than perfect, but this is home; home of the humans’ right, home of the land’s most coveted and holy artefact, home of the fabled Stick of Truth. For it was said, is said, that he who controls the Stick controls the universe: only human hands— _his_ hands—should be entrusted with the task, should wield such power.

And if the Stick does not lie here, in the heart of Zaron, that can only mean one thing: the _drow elves_ have it.

Just the thought riles a groan, deep in his throat, a low with frustration, brimming with fury. He breathes like a dragon, torrid and rasping, smoke threatening to leak through his teeth. While no flame leaves his lips, encrusted with miniscule salt crystals from his recent snack, it smoulders in his eyes, in his rounded glassy eyes, the same amber of whiskey, biting as the drink and sharp as the broken bottle it spilt from. They are pools, ones that capture and reflect everything he sees, mirrors that dare the world to question that which it presents, make nature second guess, so it can change last minute and conform to the wishes and whims of a spoiled child, give him what he deserves by means of manipulation and doubt. Yet, no matter how long his eyes focus on the pedestal, how much he wants to see what should be there, the missing refuses to be anything but that: _gone_.

_Gone_ , gone into the hands of the _wrongful_ king, the sovereign of the forests on his self-righteous crusade. Because the drow elves are a race of thieves and liars, of hypocrites and charlatans, of those more monster than man; those born of the forest are just as dirty as its floors, as slippery as its riverbeds, as crooked as its branches. But of the children of the woodlands, the worst is the one who dons the crown of warped evergreens, waves the banner of the Elven Kingdom and sits upon its throne: the High Jew Elf, _Kyle_.

Just the thought—of those greedy palms clutching the Stick, thin fingers sliding along the grain, bones seeping in the power of all the worlds combine—it makes Cartman squeeze his staff, tightly, makes him strangle its oaky neck. Splinters burrow into the thick skin, scarcely piercing the plump of his hands. Like all else of his kingdom, his staff was a salvaged treasure—once the root of an overzealous tree, whose rapid growth threatened the constitution of the basketball court’s pavement, hacked from the trunk and discarded without second thought—taking the unwanted and reforming it into the highly desired. Now his link to the arcane, no other wields the strength housed within, and extension only worthy of one so powerful as the Grand Wizard.

But for all that he can do—all the sorcery he knows, all the spells he performs, all the forces he commands—he cannot fight the Elven menace alone. No, such would be the type of hubris sung about in old pub ballads, which always end in an admonishment of the naïve hero’s overwhelming stupidity. Only a _fool_ goes into battle alone, and it is that fool’s own fault when his body gets tossed unceremoniously into a shallow peasant’s grave. A _wise man_ has an army, an army who will fight his battles for him, bestowing them with knowledge as reward for their services.

And while a great many argue what to call Cartman, none can deny that he has fighters, has people who will go into the field on his behalf. They leave the gates of the Keep with shields strapped to their backs and swords sheathed on their belts, all while their king burrows his fat ass deeper into the deflated cushion of a repurposed La-Z-Boy recliner, stuffing his face with bags of artificially flavoured junk, untouchable by the blades and arrowheads of his foes. In this instance, strategic positioning and blatant cowardice blend closely together.

His eyes ache, the whites drying out as he stares, absently, at the absence. A childish longing lingers in the recesses of his mind, the infantile and jejune belief that if—just if—he keeps staring at the pedestal, meditating on his deep desire for the Stick to return to him, be back comfortably in his chambers, where it will never leave his side, then it will come back. Its disappearance is an illusion, a silly magic trick that he can see right through, and if he concentrates he can undo the treachery…

He blinks, lids providing a too needed layer of moisture, laying a damp film over his corneas baked to a crisp. But though such feeling ought to relieve him, the water brings a sting, arms the iron in his blood vessels, sharpens them to sherds. They prick, painful flecks of shrapnel clawing from the inside out, scraping the capillaries’ interior, dragged along the stream by the his own pumping heart. His eyes open, meeting the same sad pillow, the pedestal of lost purpose, the steel within his stained glass eyes telling him to look no longer. His will means nothing unless it manifests—he knows this—unless he reforms it into something tangible, something dangerous, a force to be reckoned with.

And it is, manifesting, for any moment now his men—the finest in all of Zaron and its sister lands—will be here, be here and ready. They’ll arrive at the gates, file respectively into his throne room, and kneel before him, their lips aligned with his feet, their very breathing stayed, waiting for their king’s command. For who are they without their king? Their king who made them, who trained them, who took their feeble clay forms and hardened them into the strongest steel?

He reminds himself, of the men pledged to his banner, as he turns away from the incandescent glare. The soft glow of the tiki torches welcomes him, sterile flames dancing in their festive confines. Their dim light polishes the metal of the yard tools festooning his throne, the rakes and shovels, hoes and spades, all fanning out behind. Statements of his power, but what do they mean now? He blinks, pushing the doubts sternly out of his mind. When they open, they glint, like sword fresh from the whetstone, all his fury pooled there. Soon, soon he will make that goddamn dirty Jew pay for besting him at—no, _cheating_ him in—his own game.

Through his nose, he breathes in, capturing air in the caverns of his sinuses. His head rises as his nostrils flare, tilting back his head as his lungs fill. His wizard’s hat clings to his head, to the clumps of russet hair, cyan-dyed felt fibres hooking to the sweat-salted keratin locks. Only the pointed tip sways during is great inhale, a twitch from the bent point, like a rabbit’s ear. His chest inflates fully, excess oxygen spilling into his cheeks, swelling them, bloating his pasty and splotched face with self-instilled confidence, hubris. His mind cleanses of any notion of failure or fault, lapping up his mercury thoughts—the Grand Wizard never fails, the Grand Wizard is the most powerful in Zaron, the Grand Wizard rules the universe—whilst his tongue squeezes between his lips. Saliva wets the surface, dousing the valleys and mountains of skin reddened by blood. He tongues at one corner, drawing his lips into an upward slant. Deep in his chest, he ignites his breath.

The kiln of his body burns, and his nostrils expel the smokeless fire, fire that scrapes all the ashy doubt from his throat’s lining, banishing all nays from his system. A wave of rejuvenation washes through him, first touching his organs and marrow, then radiating to muscle and bone, lastly stimulating the fatty rolls of flesh. His mouth dips, warping the slant with a curl, putting on an assured and smug smile. Not like the smile on his wizard’s cap—the golden star, strapped to a ribbon and sewn to the felt, dons a simper of political propriety, hollow and devoid of true meaning—his embraces the rawness of emotion, experiencing everything in extremity, caring only for himself and his extensions; and for the destruction of any who stand in his wake.

But his sweet exhale is evanescent, a few stomps at his chamber’s entry curdling his moment: three stamps of a heavy boot, rubber-soled, one after the other like a fluttering heartbeat, rattling him like an earthquake. Thoughts that taste like candied fudge, dreams of glory still too chewy to swallow, wither and shrink. He gulps down emptiness, and, as he does, wrinkles crease his forehead. His brows, thick and uneven bushes, knit. His lips fall, droop back into a sour expression.

Three pounds come again, different this time, metal not rubber. The first rap brings a crunch, the head of a hammer crushing a layer of snow, while the second and third hit softened earth, thumps absorbed by dirt. Then a voice, piping out like a whistle, loud as a siren:

_“My Lord! My Lord!”_

The call pierces his ears, Cartman whipping his head to the side. The mid-morning sun outlines a silhouette, creating a shadowed spectre on the other side of the canvas. The figure alone would leave the newcomer’s identity a mystery—utterly plain, neither stocky nor strong, bouncing up and down on the heels in eagerness—but the _voice_ …

He turns his body, to face the front and focus only on that, what comes next and unfolds right before him. As he takes his steps, his terry robes sweep over the ground, gliding over trodden grass blades. One heel pulls down on the cloth, besmirching some of the deep amaranth with soil stains. His body slouching, reverting to a normal stance, his belt slides down his spine, dipping below his waist. He reaches back, flips away the cotton cape, and worms his fingers around the leather, hardened by acrylic paint. He pulls it back, tightening the band of cyan around his stomach as he does, and raises his staff. One foot stomps into place, then the other, and then in one hard motion, he plunges the staff into the ground, stabs the earth. With all of him anchored, aimed to address and command, he beckons his man in:

_“Paladin Butters,”_ His words roll up between his cheeks, sentence unfurling with a sigh. His call is a carpet, Cartman begrudgingly kicking it down to the flaps, a customary welcome. His fingers ease their grip on his staff. His knuckles darken, skin no longer wrapped taut to the bones, and his palm moves lower, along the grain. He pulls the needles from his face with his blinking, calming his disposition whilst a yellow hand tears apart the canvas.

Cartman squints as a light floods the opening, outlining Butters’ face in a blooming halo of light. The sunshine screens through the blond tufts on his head, the haystack hairstyle confined to the very top of his skull, sides shaved. A golden fillet hugs his temples, squeezing his head tightly as the band comes together at a red-violet jewel, squarely in the centre of his forehead. His eyes shine, grey as pale moonbeams, but their glow rivalling the stars. Only his smile, dominating his face, open-mouthed and cheery, matches the zealous gleam captured in the grey.

“G’morning, my Lord!” Butters chimes, elbowing the flap farther apart. He edges in, slowly, awkwardly, expressing how humbled he is to be in the presence of the king. His long turquoise tunic extends just short of his boots, a musty and worn uniform with a shield sewn across his chest, the sign of a defender. The shoulder pads exaggerate the thinness of his neck, even though they aim to bulk up his form and protect him from injury. The length of his indigo cape skirts above his thighs, just under the brown cord tied at his waist. One foot enters fully, then the other, and then Cartman catches a glimpse of his other arm, hanging limply at his side, holding his hammer down. The metal head drags on the earth, having ploughed through snow and mud.

“I didn’t give you _permission_ to _come in_ yet, Butters,” Cartman drawls, a snarl latent in his tone.

He watches Butters jolt, eyebrows arching up, smile wavering a moment. The fear plays out in his expression, the corners of his lips quavering as they lower, eyes beginning their pleading before his voice can start. Not enough people look at him like this, Cartman muses, look at him with stark fright, confer such immense vulnerability. Most in his domain look at him with an inkling of it, the hints haunting their gazes, knowing that should they make one wrong move they can fall out of the wizard’s favour, and from there plummet into obscurity. He needs to see that, that fear, as confirmation of respect, for the only way he can be assured—fully assured and reassured—of their loyalty is detecting that disquiet, finding those loose threads of anxieties, and tying them around his fingers.

Cartman closes his eyes, raises his hand. He bites his tongue, lightly, to keep the smugness from bleeding onto his face, keep from spoiling his austere mien before he wishes. He redirects the emotions, warps them into false generosity. He holds himself sternly, as he opens his eyes, waits. Butters’ lips quiver, opening and closing, about to croak out an apology; then, Cartman waves dismissively, ushering him forward. He fabricates offenses, just to proclaim them forgiven, to make himself out to be far kinder and more cordial than he truly is, feigning a balance between ferocity and benevolence.

Butters whole body heaves with his sigh of relief, shoulders sagging, kicking one foot. No sooner does he bounce back, perking up, reverting to his eager smile. So happy— _so motherfucking happy_ —despite his kingdom suffering such a loss; but Cartman swallows his annoyance with a subtle gulp. Butters the Merciful is not a fighter, not a bone in his body warrior-made. And no matter how often Cartman feels baffled at his naivety or outright stupidity; moments like these remind him of Butters’ true strength on the field: the energy he exudes. That unceasing aura he emits enables his healing powers, holy magic allowing him to take the spare fragments of his spirit and enliven others. With one touch, he can steel a soldier’s resolve, mend the damage they endured so they might get up and wreak their anger on their enemies. And on top of that, he devotes every ounce of his energies to the human cause, to Kupa Keep, to the Grand Wizard; to Cartman and to Cartman alone.

“I-it won’t happen again, My Lord,” Butters stammers out, nodding his head rapidly in compliance. His teeth chatter, tempering out when his lips pull into a smile. He whips his hammer up over his shoulder, very nearly bludgeoning himself with the heavy steel, wincing only slightly at the weight. His other hand shoots up, clunks against his forehead in a salute. His eyes seek approval, he _always_ seeks approval; of all things, _Eric_ really is the only person who values his presence, and everyone else just snubs him unless necessary. He thinks, of all things, manipulation equates to true friendship, and Cartman dares not dissuade the notion. So long as he remains useful, he does not care.

Cartman rolls his eyes, wishing loyalty could come in a more competent package. His knees ache, joints protesting his prolonged standing, urging him to take his seat. Being king is a predominantly sedentary occupation, at least the way he rules, and his moments meditating on the Stick’s disappearance diverged significantly from his usual routine. And, since the Grand Wizard’s health comes before most else, he abides by the requests of his nerves, peddling back until his calves bump the retracted footrest. The patchwork upholstery greets him, as he leans back, settles in. The fibres cough, air trapped between the depleted stuffing and scratchy fabric escaping through the gaping holes along the seams, sneaking through the spaces in stitches binding scraps of polka-dot cotton and zig-zag felt. As the throne breathes, Cartman lets out a hacking cough, the dusty sighs of his throne always aggravating his sinuses. He removes his staff, reburies it closer to his throne, after resting his arm on the chair’s. He scoots back, melts into the craters his body has already made, lifts his feet so only the tips of his toes brush the ground. When his eyes return to Butters, still frozen in salute, he nods his head, relieves him.

Butters swings his weapon down, the hammer clunking against the ground as he eases. He bows, quickly, thanking his grace for the show of mercy. The filet slides lower on his forehead, gem intercepting his brows, making him snap back to proper posture. He takes a few steps forward, then to the side, adjusting with one hand the whole way, raising the band first on one side, then the other, then fighting to make them equal. Grey eyes find Cartman’s face once more; Cartman can’t help but notice how it sits crooked slightly to the right.

“The others ‘re on their way,” He reports diligently. His eyes lock with his king’s, firmly, like a handshake.

But Cartman’s eyes don’t reciprocate it, instead roaming over the insignificant features. He watches Butters’ Adam’s apple bob when he speaks, even when he swallows, like a mite burrowed under his skin, quavering at every disturbance. He glances over the pimples, which rear their ugly white heads around his left nostril, lower right chin, even amongst the buzzed hairs on his temple. He notices the bits of blueberry pancake and clumps of scrambled egg stuck between his teeth, spotting a new one each time Butters opens and closes his mouth, making the whiteness of the enamel all the more glaring in comparison. He counts one, three, five, nine vestiges of his breakfast, before realising Butters is actually _talking_ , droning on about his entire walk from his house to Cartman’s, transforming a simple trek next door into an arduous journey across landscapes unknown. He was always bad at taking the game too seriously at all the _worst_ times.

He picks out names, mixed in with words spoken in a tongue he doesn’t know, unlearning his own language out of pure disinterest. Talk matters so little, he thinks, at times like this. What needs to be done is retaliation, hard and fast, to snuff out this threat. He cannot gather rooks and bishops and knights around a table, have them deliberate and speculate, for _pieces_ do not speak; they are all pawns, some simply move differently. And he will move them all, all around the board of Zaron, until he checkmates that fucking pretender and reclaims the Stick. All the men arriving here will be moved meticulously into their places, just as soon as Cartman knows just who he can put out into the field.

Cartman opens his mouth, about to interrupt in the midst of Butters’ rambling. Somewhere from the beginning to the middle, Butters forgot the point of his sentence, he garners from the tone, phrases spewing directionless from his lips. He starts swaying on the balls of his feet, idly, unconsciously, the hammer head thudding sporadically against a cardboard box filled with miscellanea. But before he can interject with a snarling _Enough_ , before Butters can rediscover the purpose of mentioning Mrs Biggle walking her pesky new Yorkie puppy down the block, the flaps of the tent fly open, stealing both their attentions.

First to enter is his level twelve thief, Craig passing from the sunshine to the shadows with his usual attitude: nonchalant and underwhelmed. His eyes are ice, cold blue gazing blankly before him. His face, perfectly framed—on three sides, with blue cashmere from his knitted chullo, on one side, with umber wool of his dowdy scarf—bears no expression, not a discernible one at least. His occupation requires him to, when needed, become no one. He gained the name Feldspar among the rings, after a mineral used often in glassblowing; because he is a core element in his own art, illegal and immoral but as skilful as playing the flute or singing a song. He wears a face glazed with apathy and dresses in the tones of the earth, the neutral browns and blacks that often escape the eye’s notice, and the moment he escapes the notice of his victims he proves himself a virtuoso.

But no matter how dexterous he is when infiltrating enemy outposts, how lucrative his exploits often are for the Grand Wizard, his rudeness cannot be excused. Cartman’s eyes narrow as Craig approaches; as much as he loves what Craig provides—money, information, even liberated prisoners—trust is not common amongst thieves’ guilds. Investing too much faith in a rogue, one who feels his prowess excuses him from politeness, would be stupid at best, suicidal at worst.

_“Cra—AGH,_ Feldspar _, wait!”_

On the hem of Craig’s cloak, practically riding his cape as it glides behind him, Tweek rushes inside, one hand grasped around his shovel, the other reaching for Craig’s shoulder. He takes another step inside, then his arm jolts, muscle spasm sending his hand away from the thief, allowing him to slip away, only adding to the anxiety inscribed on his face. Rarely do his hazelnut eyes reflect any hint of calm, mind always riddled with a myriad of worries, ranging from the miniscule and trivial to the catastrophic and unlikely. They tally up in tics, his body afflicted by convulsions, flaxen hair made spikey by his habit of taking a clump in hand and yanking impulsively.

But the thoughts plaguing his mind are not Cartman’s concern, his anxious outbursts so routine that he pays them no mind. The markings on Tweek’s body—on his arms, on his hips, on his face—proclaim him a fighter of a more brutish clan, and his addiction to bitter speed potions make his attacks speedier, blows coming in flurries. Cartman gave him, a barbarian, a place within his circle only partially because of this; he likes having someone who will both represent the outer peoples as well as obey his every wish. The affliction of his mind makes his body that much easier to utilise.

_“Heya fellas!”_ The manners his parents drilled in him compels Butters to break character, lifting his hand to wave as they walk in. But before his wrist rises above his belt, he realises his place, eyes flitting to Cartman, apologetically. He looks back at Butters, this time relieved. At least when they all profess their devotion to him, he will know _one_ person is actually _genuine_ in their words. Cartman gestures Butters closer, to take a place beside the throne, a small act of favouritism to bolster his presence amongst less observant subjects. First a smile crosses Butters face, then he flattens his lips into a line and nods. He scurries over, takes his place at the Grand Wizard’s left, with pride.

Craig stops a few feet in front of Cartman, finally deferring before his superior, at the latest possible moment. Tweek’s following screeches to a halt when he walks right into Craig’s back, a reflexive trill escaping his throat upon impact. Craig remains still, absorbs the force, swaying forward momentarily, then straightening his stance, with only a quiet groan. He waits, blinks to count the seconds, as Tweek nearly jumps to Craig’s side, so both their bodies fully face their king. Tweek scratches one eye, careful not to ruin the inky face paint, before his head whips to the side, looking to Craig. Craig turns his head, levelly, frost meeting coffee with relative ease.

Juxtaposed, with two very different breeds of warrior standing shoulder to shoulder, they underscore the queerness of their companionship. In some skirmishes, the duo somehow blended stealth and strength, with a master of secrecy and a veteran of savagery delivering surprisingly successful results. Rumours proliferated, sometime after their curious techniques turned the tides in the Battle of Stark’s Pond, of their partnership extending beyond the fields. Their _recreation_ came into speculation, repeating their lives outside the game; Cartman could care less whether or not such hearsay held credence. They could fuck or not all they pleased, so long as they did what they were told, when they were told to do so.

Cartman raises a hand to his mouth, clenched in a fist, “ _Ahem_.”

Reluctantly, Craig breaks his gaze with Tweek, head turning slowly. The cold front trapped within his irises changes its path, sweeping over the room until he meets the shiny brown. His shoulders lean back, muscles relaxing as he cocks his head. He radiates coolness, for he adheres to rules that supersede the typical constraints of respect, and is all too cognizant of that which he shirks. Thin lips open and, in a low and nasally voice, “ _Wizard_.”

He says nothing, no response, Cartman merely staring back. His hand lowers, rests on his rounded stomach. His fingers absently wrinkle the terry, pinkie braising the edge of his acrylic belt. As wary as he felt in inviting him to the court, all his contemplations told him that he needs a thief for this, and of them all Craig is the best. But for all his acknowledgment of ability, Cartman ensures that his mistrust is palpable, in the sharpness of his look. Craig was allowed into this court out of a form of courtesy, and if he ignores such courtesies he can easily be given no voice in matter. Besides, the Grand Wizard is not above excusing himself from the throne room, walking to the phone in the kitchen, and placing a call to the Tucker residence, to inform them of their son’s stake in the local MLG gambling circuit.

The universal rule against intentional grounding has long been ignored in the game’s revival; most of the original commandments used when they were small children are void, stricken from current play, new precedents allowing more liberal interpretation on both sides. No more bedtime meant the trimming restrictions on the night-time hours, meant that attack could be launched on the kingdoms as late as the first hour of new day, and as early as the last hour of morning twilight.

Unnerved by the uneasy atmosphere permeating the room, Tweek snaps his head, to face the king. His eyes flutter—one always a tad faster than the other, blinking an extra time—as he collects his scattered thoughts. Muscles stiffen, taut until a spasm breaks his involuntary tension, exciting his arm with random burst. He cranes his neck to the side, letting out a muted grunt, as his hand shoots up towards his face. From there, he attempts channelling his energies, bowing his head, making his hand a fist. He jerks his arm, crosses it to the other side of his chest, bangs lightly on the bare skin over his heart.

“ _Apologies_ , my King,” His voice strains, tampering with the proper volume to use, speaking too loudly at first. His eyes flit up as all others redirect their gazes to him: Butters anticipating, Cartman bemused, Craig curious. The pressure stacks, Tweek grinding his teeth before he continues, in a tame tone, “ _Manners_ have never been _Feldspar’s_ strong suit…o- _OR_ mine…”

They all dwell within a pause, words croaked out from spastic lips hanging in the air, like a fragrance from a strong perfume that latches on, refuses to dissipate and instead suffocates with aroma. Cartman holds his gaze, unmoved and uncaring. Vouching for a comrade does not lessen the need for the offender to speak the words himself. He glances at Butters, the paladin’s eyes bouncing carelessly between the two warriors, the issue simply over his head. When Cartman looks back, he watches Craig blink, once, then nod his head. His eyes shift back to Cartman.

“The elves took the Stick again?” He asks bluntly. He skips apologising, likely consider Tweek speaking on his behalf as a substitute for doing so himself, choosing instead to progress to the reason for his summoning. But before Cartman can even open his mouth, to either answer or berate him, the flaps of the tent fly open.

The susurrus of canvas fabric, in all its suddenness, steals his attention. His eyes move from the thief and barbarian—both stepping to the side and turning around to inspect—to the new arrival, only half a step in. Only a part of him can be seen, half his body. A leg sneaks between the gap, a polished black laced shoe sticking from light corduroy trousers. Cartman catches a glimpse of the edge of a down vest, lavender in hue, along with the deep garnet fabric of a long cape. One arm is visible, covered by the long sleeves a white button-up, while a brown gloved hand holds aside the canvas. On the back, a silvery snowflake is embroidered into the gauntlet.

Part of Token’s face appears, peaking in. The Nike headband tied to his forehead separates his face and hair, divides tight coils from smooth skin. Freshly showered, recently shaved, an example of neatness, of things clean and sanctified. He is, after all, a cleric, a servant of the divine as well as of Kupa Keep, well versed in the spells that bless and heal. While he fairs well in combat, he operates best as a compliment, a support within a team, buffing the bodies of others whilst he fights at their side. In this way, he proves himself integral to the battling party, even if Cartman still feels he’d make a far better blacksmith, though he’s not quite sure why.

He sees one amber eye, crisp as a glass of whiskey, only briefly, before hearing Token mutter, “ _Goddammit_.” Remembering the rules, he withdraws from the entrance, letting the flaps fall closed. He sighs before he calls out, with thinly veiled annoyance, _“Oh, Grand Wizard, may I_ please _enter thine chambers?”_

Cartman’s head leans against the thrown, eyes rolling back in his head as a sneer etches on his face. _Patronising_ , he thinks, all of them acting like they are _above_ all of this, when none of them don the crown. They have no right—none at all—to act like _retards_ , like _shitfaced cocksuckers_ , like peasants half-bred with elves functioning like _abominable motherfuckers_ who don’t know _cunts_ from _crappers_. They complain and whine about the things they perceive as so trivial, even though this is what separates them from those they fight. They act as though the kingly decrees and proclamations are at times unwieldly, without so much as recognising the necessity of his absolute governance over the humans of Zaron. They playfully and pitifully disrespect the name they defend, when they should be snivelling at his feet begging for the commands that will allow their kingdom’s glory restored.

“Scott’s here too, Eric,” Token adds, breaking Cartman from his seething thoughts. He knows not how much time passed, but when he blinks the blinding rage from his eyes, he sees Tweek and Craig standing off to the left, freeing the heart of the throne room. He watches Token silhouette morph and contort, deciphering swift blending of head and shoulder as a glance behind him, “Will you just let us in already?”

Cartman groans, bringing his staff to rest against his knee. In a clap of thunder, he bellows, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, _ENTER!_ It’s not like anyone seems to _give a shit_ about _‘chivalry’_.”

“Hey wait,” A voice comes from his left, “Isn’t chivalry, like, bein’ nice to a lady ‘n givin her s—”

Without so much as sparing a glance, “ _Shut up_ , Butters.”

“Can Scott come in too?” A figure approaches at Token’s side, notably shorter in stature.

“Sure, Malkinson can come in too,” Cartman’s face twists, the acrid words spewing from his venomous tongue warping his features. He raises his staff, angrily, while his free hand gestures wildly, “Invite the whole Elven army in here too and see if I give a flying fuck, Token.”

From beyond his chamber, he hears Token mumble, _“Calm you shit, dickhead,”_ before yanking the canvas aside.

Token holds the flap wide open, revealing both him and Scott Malkinson, standing attentively at his side. His cape green cape hangs limply behind him, tied at the neck of his lime pullover, the extra fabric of his hood unused and bunched around his skinny neck. Strapped around his chest are his bottles of insulin and his two needles, advertising his diabetic power. His tongue sticks out between two rows of teeth, adorned with bulky braces, making his mouth look fuller. One hand scratches at the dark headband squeezing his temples and forehead, occasionally toying with the messy locks of brown hair, combed shoddily into no particular style. His murky brown eyes stare intensely at a small scroll in his hand, made from two cardboard paper towel tubes, a sheet of coffee-stained printer paper, and more Elmer’s glue than needed for the job. Token gently nudges him, an elbow bumping against Scott’s shoulder, to perk him up. He bows quickly, at the waist, while Token walks inside. The flap falls closed behind him, temporarily concealing Scott from view, before he bursts through in a half-leap.

Cartman raises his brows, bites the interior of his cheek. He glares at Token, as his cleric takes his place standing along the right wall. His glower is ignored, Token instead staring bored at the map of the kingdom—hand-drawn by the Grand Wizard himself—tacked to a corkboard. When his eyes return to Scott, he clutches the scroll to his chest.

“Greetings, Grand Wizard,” He says, his lisp prevalent even in less exacerbating syllables. For so many reasons, Scott constantly stays behind, guarding the Keep when others are called to duties elsewhere, or manning the armoury and stables. But even though he is scarcely used as a ranger in battle, Cartman needed a decent sized council for this court order to seem urgent. And since Clyde still cannot be entirely trusted, even with his banishment lifted after pouting the entire first week of the game’s resumption, Malkinson had to come. Plus, he did make a healthy alternate for when mocking Butters got a little stale.

But Cartman does not reply, never caring about anything Scott says, and instead pointing his staff at each man, counting under his breath: Himself, one... Butters, two… Craig, three… Tweek, four... Token, five... Scott, six…

“Grand Wizard, if I may…” Scott raises his scroll, holding it horizontally.

He hunches in his throne as the realisation dawns on him. He lays his hand on the arm of his chair, digging his nails into the upholstery. He strikes the ground with his staff, as though his arcane powers may manifest in that moment as a bolt of lightning, to match his roar, _“Where the hell is Kinny?”_

“Grand Wizard—” The printer paper rustles, as Scott very slowly unfurls it by the cardboard tubes.

“McCormick’s _always_ late,” Craig rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders, “S’thing about needing ‘beauty sleep’.”

“—if I could just—”

“Well he should be _on fucking time_ for once,” Fire flickers in the brown, the furnace in his belly igniting with explosion.

“—say some—”

“We’re supposed to be defending Zaron from the fucking Drow Elves!”

“Gra—”

“Does he think this is a game or some shit?”

“Cartm—”

“This isn’t a game; this is _WAR_!”

_“HEY FATASS!”_

Scott’s shout screeches Cartman’s tirade to a halt, insulting the Grand Wizard the only way to grab his attention. His comrades gape at him in shock, some sense of horror lingering in the backs of their pupils, unsure how their volatile king will react, and unprepared to find out. Scott doesn’t even fully realise the gravity of his actions, until he smooths out the light freckles beneath his eyes as his lips fall low on his face. A light trembling starts in his fingertips, brought to everyone’s notice by the rustles of the scroll furling and unfurling ever so slightly with each tremor.

Cartman, completely silent, looks straight into Scott’s eyes, glass shards cutting through through oblique curtains. All the rage and fury and terror whispered about in the pubs and the inns, about the horrors the Grand Wizard is capable of, it was all captured in his eyes. Shining darkness, that’s what stared at Scott Malkinson, that and some strange urge to join his mother at church next Sunday.

In a voice too calm for anyone’s comfort, Cartman says, unblinking, “What, Scott?”

“I-I-I…” Scott stutters, stops, gulps. He raises the scroll higher, partly to show he has something to read from, partly to block Cartman’s face, “I’ve got an announcement.”

The uncanny composure persists, Cartman fixing his posture. He lets the notion sit in the air, sit in the silence, before he asks, “Are you gonna fuckin’ say it or stand here ‘til the drow elves murder us all?”

Scott coughs, clearing his throat, as he holds the scrolls closer to his face. His eyes squint as he reads the words scrawled, first to himself, then he opens his mouth. He loudly projects, his voice dwarfing all other sounds, wanting all to hear what he recites:

_“Presenting Princess Kenderella of House McCormick, First of Her Name, Fairest Maiden in All of the Kingdom, Warrior to the Grand Wizard at Kupa Keep, the Undying—”_

“ _Stop_.” Cartman says, with such clarity that the whole room freezes.

While before the boys might have neglected giving the Grand Wizard the fright he sustains himself on, they make up for it now. Butters pales at his side, eyes so wide they could easily pop from his head and roll across the soil. Craig locks his jaw, ensuring no wisecrack slips out and jeopardises his position or his life. Tweek’s convulsions cease, every muscle so tense that a twitch would send him into seizure. Token doesn’t blink, fearing that closing his eyes a moment would result in the lids being peeled off. Scott stares unseeing at the scroll given to him in the Cartman kitchen, the handwritten words blurring into illegible splotches on a dirty page.

Hearts could stop mid-beat and lungs could turn to lead mid-breath; men could drop dead in this room without a drop of blood being shed.  

_“Excuse me.”_

The voice, smooth like a petal, pointed like a thorn, breaks the unsettling silence, abruptly.

Scott lets out a yelp, dropping the scroll on the ground, abandoning it there as he hops to the side. Butters nearly jumps as a shudder ripples down his spine, forcing his body upright. Tweek jolts, first his leg then his torso then his arms overtaken by uneven jerks. Craig bites his tongue, bringing a diluted irony taste to his mouth. Token shakes his head, as though shrugging off a hypnotist’s influence. They all, with Cartman, look to the entrance, to the one waiting with back against the canvas.

Kenny McCormick stands, basking in the attention of the others, just as a princess should. He long ago shed the habit of hiding his face, winding up with the most attractive combination of features from his white-trash parents he possibly could, able to act as an Adonis or an Aphrodite; Kenny made _everyone_ think twice about what kind of people got them off. It was no secret, either, that, as the Princess, he— _she_ —possesses a prowess in seduction. The light blush splashed adding colour to his cheeks, the soft pink glossed over his lips, the subtle lilac brushed on his eyelids; they all work to emphasise the beauty already there.

Two golden braids fall to his shoulders, a silky white ribbon twisted in the plait. He ensured the hair was natural, specifically urging his friends to hold off on recreating the game until the proper length could be achieved, rather than resurrecting the tacky wig used back in the days of their childhood. A few stray strands brush over his forehead, with the same sheen of his tiara, a darker gold in colour and plastic in its make, purchased after much careful selection on Amazon. But even if the crown is costume, the necklace—not the one bought from the Claire’s clearance rack, with the ovular hoops and fake emeralds—the one hidden under his top, the one given by the Sony representatives, the one that makes him a _real_ Japanese princess.

An airy sigh leaves Kenny’s lips, as he takes his first steps forward. Each stride is poised and practiced, the reasoning made clear when, from beneath the golden hem, the rounded tip of a glittery pump clinging to the curves of his feet. The flowing ivory skirt quickly brushes over, like a tidal wave clearing over sandy shore, as the back feathers out, moving like a thistle riding on a breeze. He’s trained his movements, to capture elegance and grace, and take away from the more awkward things about his body—his lanky height throwing off the dress’ proportions, his lithe shoulders belittled by the yellow pads, his flat torso unable to follow all the curves stitched into the purple top—either distract from them completely or simply use them as part of his earthy charm.

An earthy charm, rare and almost ironic for a princess, especially one that cannot die. _Her_ history before her time in the Keep lies shrouded in mystery, with no kingdom explicitly tied to her title, and no real explanation for her immortality. While the past as fluid as the pronouns he adores switching between, the results brought on the battlefield are concrete; Kenny, unlike the others, fights like a girl and _wins_. And with victory earned by the gloved hand of the princess comes _veneration_ , one that exists both when wielding her bow, firing arrows straight into the hearts of her enemies’ chests, and when lounging in camp, admirable beauty enough to uplift even the lowest morale. With her at the Grand Wizard’s side, at his right hand, she is an asset unlike any others; but her power makes her _dangerous_.

Because while she acts like she is made of porcelain in the court, or of ivory on the fields, Cartman knows that she is entirely crafted from _steel_ , from the same metallic vein that brought him life. She is someone who must be monitored, overseen, supervised, so Cartman can ensure that he knows in and out every aspect of her workings, knows her actions will remain aligned with his interests, knows she will not jeopardise him. What happened last time, while blamed then on a laughable ‘feminine’ problem, was no mistake; and he will not have the same thing happen twice.

“You’re ruining my introduction,” Kenny says, piqued, voice snipping tiny fractures in the thick air. While his eyes remain focused on the Grand Wizard, all others stare at him, following his procession to the foot of the throne. Cartman curls his toes within his boots, spotting a faint smile teasing at the corner of those painted lips, Kenny revelling in robbed limelight. The gown swipes over the ground once more, as he stops too close to the throne, ignoring the boundary separating their royalties. The smile vanishes, lips pulling in a lopsided line, as the skies in his eyes hide between narrowed lids, “ _Asshole_.”

How Cartman wishes there was a tower, tall and high enough for him to lock him in. He would place the fiercest Hydra, or Cerberus, or whatever other vicious creature he could, out on guard and abandon Kenny there. And, perhaps, in that isolation, cold and alone, he could be subdued, shed those fractious qualities that so irk Cartman, and learn obedience. That, after all, is what a princess ought to do, to exercise loving devotion towards the kingdom that, in this case, allows her to wear a crown. Soon, he will think of something daunting enough to blot out that unwavering attitude, to cleanse him of the visions of grandeur and unbecoming ambition, to make him loyal and mute, meant simply to wave and to shoot.

“Kinny, you’re not a goddamn Targaryen,” His words are low, scorched. The brown turns to embers, hot and cautionary, the prodder daring to stick their fingers in promised a searing burn. He hopes it will somehow imbue some sense of danger in Kenny, daunt him into backing down from his petty pedestal and over to his proper post, “Cut the name bullshit.”

“It’s not _bullshit_ ,” His nose wrinkles as he scoffs. His tongue lashes the backs of his top teeth, enamel yellowed from a long habit of cigarette smoking. Cartman catches a whiff of menthol, just as Kenny takes a step back. Not out of intimidation, out of choice, making that very clear as he stretches with his movements, twisting his body, partly making his way to the right, and partly staying at the front. His eyes wander the room, noting each expression, gauging their opinions with only their eyes, before he looks back at Cartman, a casual glance over the shoulder. With breezy innocence, Kenny smirks, “It adds to my _characterisation_.”

“It’s fucking lame and faggy as shit,” Cartman beats the blunt words into him, as he gestures to Kenny’s spot with his staff. He watches Kenny’s eyes flit back and forth, brows raising and furrowing irritably. When his eyes return to Cartman, they are stern, hard.  As his mouth parts, tongue dipped in venom and ready to spit out silvered words, Cartman interrupts, “Now unless you wanna play with your boobs more get in your _place_ so we can get the Stick back.”

The words teeter on the tip of his tongue, until Kenny shuts his mouth with a clack of his teeth. He purses his lips, breathes out through the nose, stares longer into the glassy eyes. Cartman stares back, watching Kenny weigh his options, think of whether he can sneak in a few more words of defiance, then let out a snort from his nostrils. Kenny sidesteps to the right arm of the throne, and crosses his arms across his torso. He glances at Cartman, briefly, a silent vow of compliance for the now, then rolls his eyes.

Cartman lays his staff against his knee as he scoots forward in his throne. He raises his chin, and looks down at all his men, at the paladin and the princess, the thief and the barbarian, the cleric and the ranger. He looks down at them all, his subjects, his servants, his pawns, and clears his throat, ready to decree their plan of action, what they will do to thrust themselves back into the place of glory they—he—belongs in. He lets out one final cough:

“Warriors of Zaron, we are here today because the greatness that is Kupa Keep, has been wro-onged. And by wro-onged I mean that the relic that so rightfully belongs to us has been stolen from us by those no-good, dirty, _cheating_ drow elves. And this kind of strike against our totally cooler kingdom just won’t stand. I’ve intercepted news, from a carrier raven, that says where the elves are keeping the Stick; it is not yet in the High Jew’s hands. If we can get to it now, today, before it is delivered to the Elven Kingdom, we might still have a chance at salvaging the damage that’s been done. Now _I_ have a plan, and as long as we all work by that plan, I have no doubt that we’ll be able to kick their pansy elven asses and show them who’s the superior race in Zaron. _Are you with me?_ ”

Whatever reservations any of them have, they shrug their animosities and raise their fists, high above their heads. Each one gazes at the throne, with waiting eyes, holding their pledging pose. And Cartman looks back, fingers absently stroking the grain of his staff, the fire in his eyes growing, but this time not burning fires of hate. No, now he sees the opportunity, the one inscribed in these men, the path to victory their blood can pave. That, that is all he sees when he raises his staff, high in the air, and shouts, _“For the KKK!”_

He shuts his eyes, and bites back a smile, as he listens to the voices chant, _“For the KKK!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the gaps between chapters shouldn't be so long, but I think just about every sort of drama that could've happened to me, well, happened. I'm really looking forward to more work on this story and hope that people are enjoying what's going on so far. I know it's only set-up, and I know it took a long time, but I appreciate you reading either way. Thank you and hope you read on!


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